Lynchpin
by Teafortrouble
Summary: The world teeters on the edge of sinking into an apocalypse of Jim's devising, but first he must remove an obstacle. To be paired with prior works "The End" and "Paid in Full".


Jim doesn't know what possesses him to do it, the first time. Maybe it's the symbolism, the destruction of the system that keeps such a large part of the world running smoothly, whirring along like the well-oiled machine he no longer wishes it to be. Maybe it's foresight.

Maybe he just likes the way the light dances on the pearl-grey fabric of Mycroft Holmes' waistcoat when it catches the material _just so_.

—-

It is a Tuesday when Jim finally comes for him, and far overseas, the Americas, though they do not yet know it, are on the very cusp of discovering whether or not the concept of nuclear winter is merely a theory. Mycroft knows it: they won't be left to wonder for too terribly much longer.

To his credit, he does not shout when Jim makes his entrance, Sebastian at his heels, to the beautifully decorated and very top-secret office where he - while racing (and slowly floundering, failing) to keep the nation afloat - has been sequestered these past weeks. He does not shout, nor does he stand, nor panic, nor give any obvious indicator of distress.

Rather, he sighs, and sets down the delicate crystal decanter from which he'd been pouring brandy. "Ah," he says, quietly. "I'd wondered when I would be seeing you."

Jim's triumphant grin dims slightly. "You're not surprised," he accuses.

"I'm not an _imbecile_." A trace of mild irritation, of the sort one might have with a particularly slow-witted child, creeps into the elder Holmes' voice. "It has been…" he trails off for exactly long enough to consult his wristwatch, "nearly seven minutes since communications have gone dark. Am I to understand that my men are no longer a 'going concern', as it were?"

Sebastian's grin from the door exposes far too many teeth to be reassuring.

"Ah." He regards the men in his office a moment longer before pursing his lips, seeming to have come to a decision. "Well," he says brusquely, suddenly businesslike, "far be it from me to ignore an opportunity when it so readily presents itself; I've been meaning to speak with you, you understand. This business of stirring up hostilities with the asiatic nations."

In an instant, his demeanour shifts from solicitous courtesy to cold fury. "_Have you completely taken leave of your senses_?"

The proverbial cat in the cream would be envious of the level of sheer mischief in Jim's answering smile.

"You have no idea," Mycroft accuses, "the damage you could cause! This is no children's game of hostages and explosives; you stand to lose every bit as much by this foolishness as I do. You have brought the civilised world to the very precipice of disaster - and for what?"

A dazzling smile, a flash of teeth. "For _fun_."

"For fun?" Mycroft repeats incredulously. "You would bring us - bring _yourself_ - to ruin… for _fun_?" He brings his hands, palms open, down his desk with such force that his brandy jumps in its abandoned glass; rogue droplets of amber liquid splatter onto the lacquered wood surface of the desk. He ignores the mess completely and moves to push himself to his feet.

He isn't even halfway out of his chair when Sebastian appears at his elbow as if summoned.

—-

The struggle, if it can be called that, is short and brutal; Mycroft, in a display of speed and agility that belie his age and softening middle, fights with all the tenacity of a cornered animal, and he handles the heavily ornamented knife (once a letter-opener, now sharpened to a wicked point) snatched from his desk with practised skill.

Sebastian, however, is no easy opponent. For the first several seconds, he seems content to merely defend, ducking and weaving, dancing free of the knife's blade with the easy grace and proficiency of a born fighter.

The first time Mycroft nearly scores a hit, a precise strike directly for the solar plexus, it is only Sebastian's reflexes that save him; he throws himself back just far enough that the knife's point whistles through the air barely a centimetre from his skin.

He retreats a half-pace and barks a breathless, exhilarated laugh. "C'mon, Holmes," he taunts, grinning, "that the best you got?"

It isn't; two rapid steps forward, a thrust for the belly, dodge, twist, feint, and Mycroft succeeds in opening a shallow horizontal gash in the skin just above Sebastian's left eye.

It is only when he feels the hand closing, iron-tight, over his wrist that Mycroft realises what's happened. The hit was intentional, the opening left for him to exploit; a minor wound in exchange for control, and the sight of blood flowing freely from Sebastian's head gives him no comfort at all as the grip on his wrist tightens and his improvised weapon clatters to the floor.

He has no time at all to react as Sebastian, using his arm for leverage, whips him around and hooks one of his own muscular arms under his jaw. He has no breath with which to speak, wouldn't even if he did. The British Government does not beg. Sebastian's arms tighten.

There is a crack as if of gunfire; Mycroft Holmes slumps to the polished floor and knows no more.

—-

The square of material, cut with meticulous care from Mycroft's waistcoat with his own knife, shimmers so prettily in the artificial light of the office that Jim doesn't spare a second thought for his actions; he folds his latest trophy, destined to be the first of many of this type, into a smaller square and tucks it neatly into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

He lays the letter-opener on the floor beside Mycroft's crumpled body, retreats, changes his mind, retrieves the thing, _such a pretty souvenir_, and pockets it.

By the time Mycroft Holmes is found murdered in his own office, it will be entirely too late to stop the events that have been set in motion. It's _already_ too late.


End file.
